“Nothing that won’t heal,” she assured him, suddenly acutely aware of her bedraggled state—hair falling from its makeshift binding, dress torn and muddied beneath Wickham’s coat, and half-boots ruined beyond repair.
A peculiar expression crossed Darcy’s face—part relief, part wonder, as if she were the most precious sight he’d ever beheld. “For a woman avoiding scandal, you’ve created quite a spectacular one, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth laughed despite everything—the rain, the mud, and the lingering fear of a completely ruined reputation. “I apologize for the unorthodox greeting, Mr. Darcy. I would have sent a proper invitation to meet at the bridge, but my correspondence was somewhat… restricted.”
“Your message reached me nonetheless,” Darcy replied, his eyes softening. “Though I confess, your poetic talents are rather unusual.”
“Desperate circumstances inspire desperate verse,” Elizabeth countered, feeling a tentative smile tug at her lips. “Perhaps I should have recited Fordyce’s Sermons instead? I understand they make quite an impression.”
“A tactical error,” Darcy replied with unexpected playfulness. “I might have mistaken you for Mr. Collins in disguise.”
“Heaven forbid!” Elizabeth’s eyes widened in mock horror. “I should never have been rescued.”
“On the contrary,” Darcy assured her, his expression growing serious. “I would search for you across continents, Elizabeth Rose Bennet.”
The simple sincerity of his declaration stole her breath more effectively than any elaborate speech could have done. Her name on his lips, spoken with such quiet certainty, with such depth of feeling, made her heart stutter and race.
Elizabeth Rose Bennet.Not ‘Miss Elizabeth’ or ‘Miss Bennet’—but her full name, claimed with an intimacy that propriety would normally forbid.
The carriage suddenly felt impossibly small, the air between them charged. Elizabeth was acutely aware of every detail of Darcy’s presence—the damp curl that had fallen across his forehead, the raindrops still clinging to his lashes, and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His gaze held hers, unwavering, as if afraid she might disappear should he look away.
Darcy surprised her by taking her hands in his. His expression was one she had never seen before—intense yet vulnerable, determined yet uncertain.
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. This was not the distant, proud man who had once declared her“tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him.”Nor was it the feverish patient who had called her his wife in delirium. This was Darcy stripped of pretense, of social armor, of all the barriers he had constructed between himself and the world.
“Elizabeth,” he began, his voice low. “After our conversation yesterday, I had planned a careful, measured approach—letters from Pemberley, a return visit in autumn, and a proper courtship conducted with all the patience you requested. But now, I cannot hold back my intentions.”
“It seems we have met again, so soon,” Elizabeth murmured, acutely aware of his warm hands enveloping hers despite the chill of the rain.
“I hope not too soon,” he said, his gaze not leaving hers. “You asked for time. You spoke of six months, of correspondence, of certainty. All sensible precautions that I fully intended to honor.”
“I did,” she acknowledged, her heart racing.
“But I find, Elizabeth, that near loss has a way of clarifying one’s priorities.” His grip on her hands tightened slightly. “You did not specify six months, precisely. You might have meant six weeks. Six days, perhaps.”
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. “Six hours?”
“Six minutes,” he countered, his expression lightening further.
“Or six seconds,” she offered, hardly daring to believe the direction of the conversation.
“I believe those have elapsed,” Darcy observed, his smile broadening. “Several times over.”
Elizabeth’s own smile grew to match his, a lightness filling her that lifted away all the fear and uncertainty of the past hours. “So they have.”
“Then I will ask again, with no expectation of delay or deferment.” Darcy’s expression grew serious, though his eyes remained warm. “Elizabeth Bennet, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Elizabeth gasped, wondering at the surprising twist. The events of the past hours, the terror and triumph, the exhaustion and exhilaration, all seemed to coalesce into this single point of decision. Yet it was not truly a decision at all. Her heart had made its choice long before her mind had caught up to the truth.
“Yes,” she said, the word carrying all the emotion she could not express more eloquently. “Yes, I will marry you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
The joy that swept across his face was answer enough. He raised her hands to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss to her knuckles. The touch sent a tremor through her entire being, a whisper of what might be.
“You have made me the happiest of men,” he said, his voice slightly unsteady.
Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands—her small fingers enveloped in his larger ones, the contrast between them symbolic of so much. Her skin was reddened from brambles, his bearing the calluses of a gentleman who rode and fenced.
“Despite the mud?” she teased.
